


learn that speech, beyond all poet’s skill, and sacred silence

by yourlettersinthesand



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 16th Century CE, England (Country), Fluff, M/M, Nicky struggles, Venezia | Venice, im honestly no thoughts head empty they’ve just been in my mind rent free, over the times, reciting poetry because joe is A ROMANTIC, references to violence, the third crusade and nickys disappointment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:07:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25362136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourlettersinthesand/pseuds/yourlettersinthesand
Summary: He found no words for it, language notwithstanding, to his frustration. He did not think Yusuf ever thought him wavering, but he was not the verbose one when it came to displaying his affections.Or: Nicky wakes up, three times over. Joe is always there, somewhere.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 12
Kudos: 202





	learn that speech, beyond all poet’s skill, and sacred silence

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Petrarch’s “Qual donna attende a gloriosa fama”, translated by Thomas Wentworth Higginson.  
> English is not my first language and feedback is super duper welcome!  
> Find me on tumblr @greygrantaire

It had been the sudden humidity that had struck Nicolò as something had woken him up, and wet wood moaned beneath bare feet which returned carefully to his side, where absence had progressively knocked at his ribs with cold knuckles and had made him fiercely shiver himself into alertness. The digits that carefully tugged the quilt back as their so called mattress yielded to Yusuf’s weight once again quickly threaded through Nicolò’s hair and whispered by his ear; his shoulders uncoiled, the gesture as much a homecoming as the lovely impertinence of the untidy beard and steady breath caressing his neck, an insistent, heated touch to compensate for the ever disconcerting _lack_ of his lover, despite its brevity.

The knee which slid in between his legs was wet from the soil where Yusuf’d knelt, outside, something he’d not done in decades. The last morn had brought with it rain and left heavy hearts, as the townspeople whispered about the Lionheart’s armed departure to reclaim holy lands. For the third time, innocents would be slaughtered in the name of an often forgotten mission of intended peace bringing – had that not been what _he_ thought himself riding towards, when he’d gone and starved Yusuf’s city for what they discovered to be a futile attempt, doomed less than a century later? And now again, foolish men rode for divine justice, something which had for long closely resembled slaughter, in his experience. He had managed to break free, to have had a hold of violence and to have willingly, gratefully relinquished it. But he is still left with his hands, and unrelenting time passing by.

In a hesitant manner, and aiming to tame his restlessness, the Genoese greeted his beloved by shifting closer, attempting to meld his back and Yusuf’s chest into one, as it ought to be. Earnestly, as is his wont, he murmured his good mornings into the palm that had now danced towards his stubbled cheek. They were flayed alive by each other’s presence, still, in novelty and excitement. He had only the alertness to register the smiling _Habibi_ that met him halfway before sleep had, anew, furtively taken him.

-

They’re in Venice, at Yusuf’s request; he missed the bitter coffee beans he’d not been able to get without actively searching, and they’d heard through merchant mutters here was the place for it. With an endless archive of timeless smiles of his, which he occasionally shifted through during bloodied nights, when the lines of his face took on a haunted hue, Nicolò was never unfazed by new submissions in his shelves, particularly the ones in which Yusuf held something that reminded him of his origin, but the fond twist to his mouth pointed towards a constant homely presence, that had for long meant only Nicolò himself. There had never been any sorrow in regards to their companionship, even before they’d each bitten the other bloody trying to kiss and embrace that first time, centuries ago; but it was nice, to have no chance of doubting he was loved and to freely love in return, worship with an enchanted soul not heavy wax and humming halls, but the slope of a man’s nose and the valleys of his collarbone, to have his ever-willing body at the service of a higher cause – not one of clashing swords, although they did plenty of that over the decades – but one of unconditional devotion. He found no words for it, language notwithstanding, to his frustration. He did not think Yusuf ever thought him wavering, but he was not the verbose one when it came to displaying his affections.

The room they’re currently renting is close to the marketplace and, finding him gone as he woke, he’d assumed the dark haired man had gone there for them to break their fast. He was proven right by his arrival, quiet, unhurried footsteps creeping closer towards the door. Nicolò closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall parallel to the open window and allowing sunlight to drown him in its steady flow. The door groaned, allowing Yusuf to open it and quickly close it back. He could almost feel his surprised smile swimming towards him for finding him awake and up.

Two hands cupped his cheeks. “Burtuqāl?”, he asks, sensing the citrusy aroma that lingered in Yusuf’s fingers. The man kissed him in reply, confirming his suspicion. Humming his assent, so close their noses still caressed, Yusuf murmured back _your favorite_.

Opening his eyes, he sees a number of oranges lounging in the humble wooden table next to the book that had had them rushing to bed the night before. Yusuf had sat on that very table, reading quietly, sharing a verse aloud and piercing him with a look. He’d finally given up any pretense when the smirking idiot, in all his earnestness, broke the silence by reciting aloud, in what would become the model for future Italian, _He makes sweet havoc in this heart of mine, /And to my thoughts brings transformation high, /So that I say, “My time has come to die, /If fate so blest a death for me design.”_ They’d done quite a ruckus after that, between giggles and heavy breaths.

-

He felt frozen through, as he heaved upwards and took in gasping deep breaths. _Not the tulips, Nile_ , he thought, stupidly, when he’d seen Nile bring the fresh flowers to their safe house’s kitchen, knowing Joe’d be reminded of Karbala and violent blood. Thankfully, Joe’d been washing off. Memory was a tricky fellow. But that’d been yesterday, before they’d set out for the mission, before Joe had gotten himself blown up inside the warehouse, having had to enter first in Andy’s place what must’ve been minutes ago and before Nicky’d gone berserk on the small army outside, wild with something fierce for having had to stay. The certainty of his coming back did not make the sight, the deafening sound any easier to bear. Nicky had never left the siege of his youth - now he’d been made captive of charcoal stained fingertips, the very same that had removed the knife from his back and helped him off his knees, in a moonlit battlefield of their own making a thousand years ago.

He supposed the last of them must’ve gotten him from the back, as he’s laying in snow. Then, his vision came back, as well as his hearing, hand-in-hand with sharp and desperate “Nicolò, destati”, thumping closer and closer along with crunching, wet footsteps. Joe must have just woken up, too. He reached up, touched the dark haired man’s cheekbones, bent over him, flushed and alive, and was reminded of rain-struck petals.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp!  
> The poem Joe recited is also Petrarch’s, “Quando Amor i begli occhi a terra inchina“.  
> Fun fact: the Arabic word for orange, the fruit, is Burtuqāl, because it’s thought that it was in Portugal the people first tasted the fruit.  
> Find me on tumblr @greygrantaire!


End file.
